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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29632128">They didn’t go for cake in the end</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper'>indigospacehopper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sherlock and John [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Feelings, Love Confessions, M/M, Series 4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 19:14:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>9,951</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29632128</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/indigospacehopper/pseuds/indigospacehopper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>They didn’t go for cake in the end. They bought plenty of sweet foods; chocolate and biscuits and far too many strawberry bon bons – John even treated Sherlock to some rather nice macaroons from Fortnum &amp; Mason’s coveted counter - but Sherlock didn’t receive the cake they had originally planned. He didn’t mind, though. He would have exchanged cake for more time with John any day of the week. </p><p>A small fic bridging the gap between The Lying Detective and The Final Problem, because I’m convinced they’re dating (but secretly) in The Final Problem. </p><p>All chapters are completed and will be uploaded daily.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Sherlock and John [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2182932</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter One: Sherlock</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They didn’t go for cake in the end. They bought plenty of sweet foods; chocolate and biscuits and far too many strawberry bon bons – John even treated Sherlock to some rather nice macaroons from Fortnum &amp; Mason’s coveted counter - but Sherlock didn’t receive the cake they had originally planned. He didn’t mind, though. He would have exchanged cake for more time with John any day of the week. </p><p>For the most part, Sherlock was amazed at how quickly they fell back in step with one another. They were silent for a while, walking alongside one another as they cut through Marylebone High Street.</p><p>Sherlock had suggested they walk because he didn’t think he could bear the usual familiarities of the back of the cab with John quite so soon. Somehow the excitement of rushing off to a crime scene with John by his side was unbearable. </p><p>The thrill of the chase was so far away, so distinctly missing from their current lives that Sherlock could only equate the loss of it to the death of a loved one. </p><p>John wouldn’t go on any cases with him for a while. John wouldn’t let Sherlock go on any cases for a while. They both pretended it was Mycroft stopping them from rushing off whenever Lestrade summoned them. Mycroft as Sherlock’s brother, and John as Sherlock’s disapproving doctor, had unanimously decided that Sherlock needed to rest. After all, he had: “quite literally been to hell and back and you haven’t really looked after yourself in that time. Don’t give me that look, Sherlock. You weren’t pretended to be off your tits, were you? You were also beaten up pretty badly - how’re John’s knuckles, by the way? I hope John’s apologised to you. And you were nearly the victim of serial killer. Again.” Was Lestrade’s verbal reasoning when Sherlock had informed him of the decisions that had been made for him.</p><p>So, until John saw fit, Sherlock wasn’t working except for the few odd cases that drifted into his inbox. He had enjoyed solving a few of them: a vain woman in York was being catfished by her ex-girlfriend, who was using pictures of the victim but with photoshopped hair. <br/>Sherlock had called her a narcissist and sent her the link to a full-length mirror available in a flat-pack furniture store. Another case came from a man in Bristol. He wrote to complain that his carrots kept dying and that someone was poisoning them. Surprisingly, he was correct. </p><p>Each had been an easy case to solve (it took Sherlock less than five minutes for each, and that included typing his response), but the money he received was good and he used it to order Rosie some new clothes and a few toys. He had sent them to John’s address anonymously, but the stuffed bee and the story book about Marie Curie had given him away. </p><p>“You didn’t need to get her anything,” John had told him over the phone shortly after the parcels had arrived.</p><p>“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”</p><p>“You bought Rosie clothes and toys and a book about Marie Curie. Sherlock, she’s barely a year old. She can’t read. She likes cuddly toys and funny faces, she’s not interested in science.”</p><p>“She could be. You have to start these interests early, John, children are very impressionable.”</p><p>“I’ll support her in whatever she chooses to do with her life, and if she finds out that she loves science then I’ll support her.”</p><p>Those were the good days. The good conversations. The days where they almost reached a version of normality with which Sherlock could live without complaint. <br/>And yet there were more of the other days.</p><p>Sherlock’s stomach still churned uncomfortably whenever John looked at him with an expression that wasn’t akin to happiness. He consistently found himself reassessing his actions through fear he had done something to piss John off or upset him once again. He missed the days when he didn’t have to worry about pissing John off, because he knew that, for all Sherlock’s faults, John would recognise that Sherlock would never to anything intentionally malicious towards him.</p><p>Except faking your death.</p><p>Except locking him in a laboratory and convincing him he was about to be eaten by a giant dog.</p><p>Except –</p><p>Mentally, Sherlock roundhouse kicked the lone voice as it announced his past mistakes. </p><p>“They weren’t mistakes,” he reminded himself, “I had a good and justifiable reason for each one. John would have tried to come with me if I’d told him I was about to fake my death. He’d have done it too. He could have told everyone he was going back to Afghanistan and then he could have met me in Switzerland. He wouldn’t have thought twice about it.”</p><p>His admission shut the voice up, but his stomach knotted painfully. John would have gone with him without hesitation. John would have left London in a heartbeat for the chance at more action, for the most hands-on case Sherlock had ever experienced.</p><p>And if John had have gone with him, if Sherlock had simply been better at communication and if he had worked smarter against Moriarty in the first place, John could have been a wonderful accomplice. No one would have questioned John’s return to war after Sherlock’s death. From what Sherlock had gathered from minimal deductions, John had taken a leaf out of Harry’s book and found the whiskey, just as he’d done when Mary had died. </p><p>But then, if John had have gone with him, he would never have met Mary. And if he had have gone with him, he might hate him a little less now. </p><p>“Everything alright?” John asked, looking up at him as they walked side-by-side. “You look a bit agitated. We can stop.”</p><p>Everyone had protested at Sherlock having painkillers. Whether it was all for a case or not, he had consumed a fair amount of unsavoury substances recently and no one wanted to risk him falling any further down that rabbit hole again. Neither John nor Mycroft had forgotten that Sherlock had nearly overdosed on the other plane over a year prior to Culverton Smith surfacing at all, and neither had they forgotten accidentally stumbling across him in a drug den. Case or not, Culverton Smith or Augustus Magnussen, both John and Mycroft had recognised that tricky cases hadn’t been the only factor in Sherlock’s relapse.</p><p> However, his blackened bruises had largely faded and his eye was improving all the time, but his body still ached. He was tired a lot, and his teeth felt strangely gritty after the about of sugar John had offered him. <br/>John watched him with concern, his hands stuffed in his pockets, shielding them from the cold January air. </p><p>“Sherlock?”</p><p>“No, I’m alright. Just thinking,” Sherlock replied. <br/>John’s eyes narrowed slightly, a slight frown forming on his tired face. </p><p>Experience told Sherlock that John’s expression was one born of confusion rather than displeasure. </p><p>“Really,” Sherlock said, “I’m fine. If I needed to stop I would tell you, or I would just stop.”</p><p>John raised an eyebrow, sceptical. </p><p>Absently, Sherlock wondered which part of the lie John was unsure about. He suspected the first part, but John neither confirmed nor denied those suspicions. </p><p>“Okay,” John conceded eventually, “I’ll get you a cab back to Baker Street after we’ve picked up Rosie. You look exhausted.”</p><p>“Oh,” Sherlock reacted automatically, without really thinking. “I thought… actually, it doesn’t matter.”</p><p>John tilted his head to the side.</p><p>“No, what were you going to say?”</p><p>Sherlock steeled himself.</p><p>“I thought you and Rosie could come back to Baker Street with me,” he said, and he felt the tips of his ears burn. He was glad, for the first time, of the mass of dark curls covering his head. It shielded his tell-tale ears from John’s view. “Baker Street is too quiet. I don’t like it.”<br/>John smiled slightly.</p><p>“Baker Street is never quiet with you there,” he chuckled. “But, okay, we’ll come back to Baker Street with you. Only for a few hours though and be warned, Rosie is teething and is extremely grumpy. Molly said that she’s been crying most of the day. Mary and I used to joke that she was straight out of a horror film, the amount of screaming she used to do.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded. He wasn’t quite sure what to reply to John’s anecdote; John’s consistent laments about Mary’s death had darkened any of the positive factors of their relationship. The usual husband and wife things had been overshadowed by their extended lives, and it didn’t help that Mary had done a runner to Morocco. </p><p>“But if you want to get her home that’s okay,” he cut across his own thoughts. John needed to make up for lost time with his daughter, mourn the death of his wife in a healthy way, and not be in charge of babysitting a junkie detective he evidently didn’t like very much. </p><p>“We can always do this another day.”</p><p>John stopped, and an irate woman wrapped in fur tutted as she almost collided into the back of him.</p><p>“Sherlock,” he said, ignoring the woman.</p><p>Sherlock’s stomach knotted again.</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“You know you’re not a burden, right? I mean, I’m not spending time with you because we’re worried about your drug habit. Well, that is part of it but I think…” he faltered, looking away, catching himself before he voiced the unthinkable. “Doesn’t matter.”</p><p>Sherlock watched him.</p><p>“I know.”</p><p>John looked up at him, unbridled surprise and worry etched into his face.</p><p>“You know?”</p><p>“I know I’m not a burden,” Sherlock supplied, and John’s shoulders visibly relaxed. </p><p>“Oh, well,” he began, but Sherlock cut him off.<br/>“We’re friends,” he said, “which is not something I admit to lightly, but you also have a daughter. I am not a parent, nor am I ever likely to be one, but I understand that your child will always take precedence. I would be a pretty rubbish friend if I couldn’t understand that, so if you want to take Rosie home I will understand.”</p><p>He had said it more for his own sake than John’s, it gave them an excuse to part ways and never see each other again. If John walked away, Sherlock could list the reason for John’s absence as handling the difficulties of being a single parent and feelings wouldn’t be hurt.<br/>Sherlock decided to ignore the overwhelming flaw in his logic. </p><p>John meanwhile eyed him uncertainly, his brows furrowed. </p><p>Sherlock decided he didn’t like that look.<br/>John’s stare faltered after a few moments, and he sighed heavily. </p><p>“Let’s just see what sort of mood Rosie is in first.”<br/>Sherlock nodded, his whole body ached. </p><p>“You know, we haven’t discussed your hair yet,” he said, deciding to change the subject. “Is the look permanent or…?”</p><p>They carried on walking, and John grinned sheepishly. <br/>“I told my barber to do anything,” he explained, turning through a gap in fence that brought them onto a short expanse of trees and grass. “I needed a change, and becoming a Dad made me feel a bit… old.”</p><p>Despite the cold January air, Green Park was enjoying a day of idle walkers and cyclists, carrying them between Buckingham Palace and the Underground Station. </p><p>“So you deciding to fight off the old age by letting your idiotic barber give you a quiff,” Sherlock supplied, stepping out of the way of a large gaggle of tourists as they chatted to one another.</p><p>John laughed.</p><p>“It’s not a quiff, Sherlock.”</p><p>“It’s a quiff.”</p><p>“If it’s a quiff, it’s a very small quiff.”</p><p>“It’s still a quiff.”</p><p>A few metres in front of them, Molly stood against a tree with Rosie strapped to her chest. She held one hand against Rosie’s back, and the other she was using to wave madly at Sherlock and John. </p><p>“There she is,” John beamed, abandoning the conversation and helping Molly pull Rosie out of the baby carrier. </p><p>Just like her Dad, Rosie’s brows furrowed at the sudden confusion caused by being hoisted into the air, but she smiled when she recognised the man holding her and made an indistinct grab at his nose.</p><p>“She’s cheered up now,” Molly explained, tugging the baby carrier off herself. She sighed once she was free. “And she doesn’t have a temperature anymore, either. Hi, Sherlock.”</p><p>Molly offered him a small, sheepish smile, which Sherlock did his best to return. It came out as a pained grimace. </p><p>“Hello.”</p><p>Molly’s smile didn’t falter. </p><p>“This is for you.”</p><p>She tugged a rucksack from her back and placed it on the ground, before crouching down and rummaging around inside it. </p><p>Sherlock recognised it as Rosie’s travel bag.</p><p>Molly retrieved something from the bottom of the bag and straightened up again. </p><p>“This is from Rosie, as a thank you for the clothes and toys.”</p><p>She handed Sherlock a folded up piece of paper, through which Sherlock could see various blocks of colour that had almost soaked through to the opposite side. <br/>Sherlock unfolded it. </p><p>Black block capitals were stamped across the top of the horizontal sheet, reading: “Thank you, Sherlock!” And beneath the writing stretched a collage of tiny handprints in different colours, all mashed on top of one another with no coherent order or reason. </p><p>Sherlock smiled, looking down at it. </p><p>“I imagine your flat is covered in paint, now,” he said, folding the paper and pocketing it. “You’ve changed your shirt three times today.”</p><p>Molly shook her head.</p><p>“No, I didn’t make it with Rosie,” she said, “it was on John’s fridge. It’s alright that I gave it to him, isn’t it?” She asked quickly, turning to John. “I presumed it was meant for him but you kept forgetting it.”</p><p>John chuckled and nodded, holding Rosie close.</p><p>“Something like that,” he said, not looking at either Sherlock nor Molly as he spoke. His focus lay completely on his daughter, who was watching a squirrel with absolute fascination as it rushed about between the trees.</p><p>“Well, thank you, John and Rosie,” Sherlock hummed, tapping his pocket. “It’ll take pride of place on my fridge.”</p><p>Both Molly and John looked up at him in surprise. </p><p>“Really?”</p><p>Sherlock frowned, looking between the both of them. Even Rosie was looking at him now, though her eyes still shone with all the excitement of seeing a squirrel. </p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock confirmed, a little confused. “I do have magnets. John, you know I have magnets. You used to rearrange them to spell out rude words.”</p><p>“That’s not…” John started, then trailed off. He shook his head. “That’d be nice.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded slowly, more than a little bit confused.<br/>“Does anyone fancy some lunch, then?” Molly piped up, her hands clasped together.</p><p>Sherlock had forgotten she was there.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter Two: John</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi! Thanks for reading this far :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>If anyone had dared to ask John what the worst day of his life was, they wouldn’t have received an answer. That wasn’t because John would have purposely ignored them, or that he simply hadn’t had any bad days, but because he simply couldn’t choose just one bad day to mention.</p><p>The day his wife died was a very strong contender, and he reasoned that he probably ought to name that day as the worst should anyone ask. It would be indecent to suggest that the day he had become a widow hadn’t been the worst day of his life. That’s just what people expected.</p><p>The days his mother and father died were two very strong contenders. His father had suffered a heart attack while on holiday in Barmouth, and his mother had died in a car crash a few years later. The day he had been shot hadn’t been particularly fantastic, and the day Sherlock had thrown himself off the top of St Bart’s was most certainly a day John didn’t ever want to remember. </p><p>John felt that all in all, he had definitely encountered more than his fair share of bad days. He’d had some good days, too, though. Brilliant days, even. But it was when bad days flowed into the night, like a dim moon on a clear day that simply refused creep below the horizon where it belonged, that John really felt the effects of them.</p><p>Sometimes he would wake up in the middle of the night, parched, and would quietly head downstairs for a cup of tea and a biscuit. He kept them stocked up in the cupboard, just in case, to keep him company while he watched the pictures on screen without really hearing them. He had discovered a secret love of railway journey documentaries, however, and took solace in the fact that no matter how awful his day had been there were always at least ten train documentaries recorded. </p><p>Absently, he worried that he was slowly becoming his father. </p><p>Over the last few years, John had found himself grunting as he stood up and sat down. As he, Molly, and Sherlock had sat down at a bustling Italian restaurant the previous day, he had complained that the music was too loud and that he could barely hear what anyone was saying. </p><p>Sherlock had made a joke that John was getting old, and John had retaliated with a remark that between Sherlock’s constant noise and Rosie’s screaming it was a wonder he wasn’t already completely deaf.</p><p>But, and as pained as he was to admit it, John was getting old. He was closer to fifty than forty now, and he knew that he probably ought to start making plans for the upcoming years and Rosie’s education. Mary had been set on Rosie going to private school, preferably boarding, but John had strongly argued against that idea. That was until Mary’s will was read, and John learned that Mary hadn’t quite disclosed all of her finances to him – along with a great many other nuggets of information about her life.</p><p>Mary had chosen the house John and Rosie lived in while they were still together, and it was quite a nice house indeed. A terraced house in Wimbledon, the area boasted brilliant parks, great entertainment, local shopping, and fantastic transport links. It was the perfect place to raise a child in London.</p><p>John didn’t like it. </p><p>There were too many businessmen and too many women with diamonds the size of a tennis ball balanced on their finger. There were too many Range Rovers and too many dinner parties, and while the wealth of the area made it a wonderful placed to live, John knew that it wasn’t where he and Rosie belonged.</p><p>He already knew where their home was, and it certainly wasn’t suburbia.  </p><p>“Is it nice?” Sherlock had asked at lunch, in between mouthfuls of Pici Cacio e Pepe. “Suburbia, I mean? I’ve never asked you too much about your home. Mary owned the house, didn’t she? She bought it before you were married.”</p><p>John had shrugged, wiping food from Rosie’s cheek with his thumb. </p><p>Part of him was amused at Sherlock’s attempt at small talk, while sitting in a cramped restaurant eating lunch. A larger part of him was on guard, however. Sherlock rarely asked questions without having a serious motive for wanting to know their answer; he usually just deduced the answer without having to ask the question at all.</p><p>“It’s quiet.”</p><p>Sherlock had nodded and gone back to his pasta.</p><p>“It’s a lovely neighbourhood,” Molly piped up as she looked between Sherlock and John. “I worked at St George’s before St Bart’s and my old boss had a house in Southfields. He’d invite us over for BBQs and stuff. It is so different to central. Very different to Baker Street.” Molly sipped her wine and watched Sherlock, who remained silent.</p><p>John hadn’t enjoyed Molly’s comparison, and suddenly John felt that he was being unjustly questioned – that Molly and Sherlock were leading up to something, or implying something, that he either hadn’t picked up on or he was deliberately being kept from knowing.</p><p>“Sherlock has every right to keep secrets from you,” a small voice reminded him, while he lay stretched out across the sofa that night. “You’ve been a total bastard.”</p><p>But he was going to try to do better. He was. He was going to try and he was going to show Sherlock that he actually didn’t hate him and that he had never really meant to hurt him. Not really. Sherlock had been high and dangerous to everyone in that morgue, including himself. John’s anger had been directed at the wrong person and he knew he was in the wrong and the only thing he could do was apologise.</p><p>And so, the day after Sherlock’s birthday, John awoke up with the sudden urge to do better. </p><p>He had to keep reminding himself that no matter what pit he fell down in life, there was at least an attempt at a rope that he could use to pull himself back up again. Occasionally that rope came in the form of the urge to have a shower, or it sounded as the cry of his beautiful daughter. Sometimes it was an outstretched hand promising adventure, but that hand mostly left him alone now.</p><p>John couldn’t blame it.</p><p>He showered, dressed, and once Rosie was awake he loaded her into the baby carriage strapped to his chest and headed to the nearest shop. </p><p>It was nice to get out of the house, and nicer still to step into that fatherly role he felt he had so mercilessly abandoned after Mary died. </p><p>He had abandoned so much. </p><p>But today, he was going to make things right. He was going to correct his numerous past mistakes, and he was finally going to stop being so bloody British and lose that god awful trait he had of never voicing his feelings. Anything out of the ordinary was wrong and god, did John crave some normality in his life. </p><p>“This might be the day I ruin it all,” John told Rosie, looking down at her while they waited for the green man to light up. “Not that I can make it any worse. This’ll either be the final nail in the coffin, or it’ll be the beginning of the best life I could ever offer you.”</p><p>Rosie simply looked up at him and smiled, oblivious. </p><p>They reached the local corner shop. A squashed little place with cardboard boxes spilling out from under the shelves, the shop was a gem in the middle of London’s dominant gentrification. </p><p>John marched towards the biscuits, which were stacked next to the washing up liquid.</p><p>“Ah, hello Mr John and little Miss Rosie,” the man behind the counter said, smiling as John turned so that Rosie could see the man who had spoken. </p><p>“Hi, Nate,” John replied, dropping a packet of gingernuts on the counter. “Could I grab a packet of Benson and Hedges? Silver? Smallest pack you’ve got. Ta.” He rummaged around in his pocket and extracted his wallet.</p><p>“I didn’t know you smoked,” Nate said, sliding the cabinet behind the counter open and retrieving the cigarettes. “Very bad for your health, and the pictures are gross. Do you want the black lungs or the woman with no teeth?” Nate held up two packets for John to see.</p><p>“No teeth,” John decided. “And they’re not for me.” He glanced down at Rosie, who beamed back. </p><p>She really was a very happy baby.</p><p>“Well,” Nate tapped something into the till “let whoever you’re buying them for know that they’re no good. I ought not to sell them but I like making money.”</p><p>John laughed.</p><p>“Nothing can kill him, though it’s not like the world hasn’t tried. See you later.”</p><p>“Bye, Mr John,” Nate called as John left. “And bye to you too, little Miss Rosie.”</p><p>Once outside, John pocketed the cigarettes and the ginger nuts (they stuck out of his pocket awkwardly), and headed towards the nearest Underground Station. </p><p>—</p><p>“Anyone in?” John called up the stairs. “Sherlock? Mrs Hudson?”</p><p>He closed the front door with his foot.</p><p>“We’re upstairs,” Sherlock shouted, and John smiled. </p><p>“Come on,” he whispered to Rosie, kissing her temple before starting up the stairs. </p><p>Mrs Hudson and Sherlock were sitting opposite one another. Sherlock sat in his usual chair, and Mrs Hudson sat in John’s. Both of them had cups of tea and their sides, and Sherlock was holding a battered old paperback. </p><p>“Hello, John.” Sherlock smiled, looking up at him and Rosie. “And hello, Rosie. We’re just wrapping up our book club.”</p><p>“Book club?” John chuckled, pulling Rosie out of the baby carrier and handing her to Mrs Hudson. “Which book?”</p><p>Sherlock held it up for him to see. </p><p>“Bridget Jones’s Diary?” John laughed. He took Rosie back off Mrs Hudson and sat down on the sofa at the far end of the room. He balanced Rosie on his knee, bouncing her gently. “Did you enjoy it?”</p><p>“Hm, I did, actually.” Sherlock nodded, looking over the book cover. “Not enough murder for my taste, though. We’re reading Death on the Nile next.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson sighed with all the contention of a woman who was simply bored with an argument, rather than a woman who had simply lost an argument. </p><p>“You won’t enjoy it,” she said airily. “At least I choose books we’ll both enjoy.”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes and John grinned. </p><p>Mrs Hudson stood up. </p><p>“I’ll leave you boys to it,” she said, automatically gathering Sherlock’s empty mug as well as her own before she bustled off into the kitchen. </p><p>Sherlock stretched, his bare toes curling against the rug beneath the coffee table. He looked over at John. </p><p>“This isn’t your day,” he said. </p><p>“No,” John agreed. </p><p>Rosie grabbed John’s finger and began chewing on it. Slobber dribbled all over it, but John didn’t seem to notice. </p><p>“What are you doing here?”</p><p>John paused. </p><p>He had left the flat full of confidence. He had spoken to Nate, and the confidence hadn’t wavered. </p><p>Now it had vanished. It had faded out of existence like mist across a pond; one moment it was there, so prominent and so undulating, and the next moment it was like it had never there at all. </p><p>“Nothing,” John said, feeling the back of his neck grow hot, “Rosie and I are going to the zoo and I thought you might like to come.”</p><p>Sherlock narrowed his eyes.</p><p>“Well, that’s a lie.”</p><p>John raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“I beg your pardon?”</p><p>“That’s a lie,” Sherlock repeated, straightening up. He pivoted his body in his seat to face John and Rosie, throwing his legs over the arm of the chair. “You’re lying. You weren’t going to the zoo.”</p><p>“Yes, we were,” John replied, his voice firm.</p><p>Between them, Rosie grew bored of John’s finger and switched to his thumb. </p><p>“John,” Sherlock sighed, his head lolling back. “After all these years you still think you can get away with lying to me. Honestly, it’s like you don’t know me at all.”</p><p>And suddenly, all the good intentions John had held as he’d walked into Baker Street vanished. </p><p>He gently tugged his thumb free from Rosie’s mouth and wiped it on his jeans, then stood up. </p><p>“We’re leaving.”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes, lifting his head to look at John as he opened the door Mrs Hudson had closed on her way out. </p><p>“Are we really going to keep doing this?” He asked. “Because I’m bored of it, John. I’m bored of you tiptoeing around me like I’m a bomb that’s about to go off.”</p><p>John wheeled around, Rosie clutched to his chest. </p><p>“Go on then,” he challenged, glaring at Sherlock as Sherlock stood. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Deduce me. Tell me how you knew I wasn’t actually going to the zoo, seeing as you’re so desperate to show off. Tell me how you know I was lying.”</p><p>Between them, Rosie looked across at Sherlock and then up at John. Uninterested, she stuffed her fist into her mouth and began sucking idly on it. </p><p>“No,” Sherlock replied.</p><p>“No?”</p><p>“No.” Sherlock nodded, standing in front of John. </p><p>“What do you mean? ‘No’?” </p><p>Sherlock sighed heavily.</p><p>“John, all you’re doing is looking for a reason to be angry at me and believe me, if it was my intention to piss you off you would have already left. Sorry Rosie.” He looked down at the baby, who was looking out of the window with benign interest.</p><p>“You want me to tell you how I know you were lying so that you don’t have to say what you were originally going to say. And I understand. It’s tricky. It’s difficult. Sometimes, and I believe I speak for both of us here, our feelings overtake our thoughts and sometimes, against all rationale, we find ourselves grappling with our imagination pertaining to the wondrous opportunities of what could be and the dire consequences of what is more likely to happen.</p><p>“But you’re a man of action, John. You’re a man who’s looked death in the eye numerous times and you’re a man who’s experienced more than your fair share of heartbreak. Having said that,” Sherlock looked up at the ceiling, considering his thoughts aloud. “Your life really is all the evidence I need that love is dangerous. I should have been recording all the evidence from day one, it would have made a wonderful experiment and subsequent blogpost. I dare say it would have been even more popular than one of yours…”</p><p>“Sherlock.”</p><p>“Oh, sorry. Off track a bit.” Sherlock smiles. “What I’m trying to say is that despite everything, no, because of everything, you don’t have to say what you were going to say because I already know.” </p><p>“You… know?” John asked. His mouth felt dry, like his tongue and throat had suddenly become sandpaper and someone had just given him a teaspoon of ground cinnamon to swallow.</p><p>Sherlock nodded. </p><p>“I know,” he clarified, watching John intently. “I know because of the packet of ginger nuts in your pocket and the packet of cigarettes in the other. I know because you didn’t leave your suburban terrace with the intention of going to the zoo, having left Rosie’s trusty bag probably at the bottom of your stairs where you usually keep it.”</p><p>“The bag…” John groaned. “I was in such a rush I-“</p><p>Sherlock grinned. </p><p>“You forgot the bag. And you don’t sleep very well at night, so your decision must have been something you were mulling over during the night to get here at…” he checked his watch, “9 o’clock in the morning during rush hour on a Monday. The jubilee line is closed for engineering works, too, so you’d have had to catch the circle line which is absolute dedication. Here,” Sherlock strode across the room and extracted a USB memory stick from his laptop. “Some of my more relaxing compositions.” He handed the small silver stick to John. “Plug it into your laptop and download them onto your phone. If you need help, there are tutorials on YouTube. I know how inept you are at technology. I know you like background noise while you sleep.”</p><p>John chuckled, looking down at the memory stick. </p><p>“Thanks,” he said, smiling at the memory stick as he turned it in his hand. “And you’re right. I haven’t been sleeping very well.”</p><p>“Neither have I,” Sherlock admitted. “But I always have your blog to send me to sleep.”</p><p>John huffed.</p><p>“Just when I think you’re being polite.”</p><p>Sherlock turned away, closing his laptop lid and smiling sadly. </p><p>“And I know what you’ve done, by the way,” John added, taking a step closer to Sherlock, whose gaze never left his closed laptop lid.</p><p>“Oh?” He asked, airily. </p><p>“Hm.” John nodded. “You’ve gone off-topic. Intentionally.”</p><p>“Have I?”</p><p>“Yes,” John said, watching Sherlock for any hints of any changes to that sad smile that was so horribly sweet to see. “Because you’re also scared.”</p><p>“I didn’t say you were scared,” Sherlock cut in, now turning to look at John. </p><p>His eye was still red, still sore, but seemed far better than it had done the previous day. The bags under his eyes had begun to relent, too, and John noted that Sherlock seemed to have had a proper shower and shave since the previous day. He smelt better. Was that aftershave he could smell? </p><p>But John could still see the fear. He could still sense it, even with Rosie held between them and her tiny grunts as she tried to grab onto John’s hand, John was fully aware of how tense Sherlock had become since their conversation started.</p><p>“You didn’t have to say that I’m scared,” John told him quietly. “You know that I am.”</p><p>Sherlock huffed out a quiet laugh, a slight indicator of his agreement.</p><p>“Sherlock,” John sighed after a few moments pause. “Why can’t we just be honest with one another?”</p><p>“I’m always honest with you,” Sherlock replied.</p><p>This time, it was John’s turn to laugh. </p><p>“Okay, fine,” Sherlock countered, his usually pale cheeks slowly turning pink. “I do sometimes withhold the truth from you, but I’ve never once lied to you about… about that.”</p><p>“But you’ve never outwardly told me.”</p><p>For a brief moment, puzzlement flashed across Sherlock’s face as he considered what John had said, and John watched him with equal confusion. </p><p>“Angelo’s…” Sherlock said slowly. “I said that women weren’t my area, and I told you I didn’t have a boyfriend.”</p><p>John blinked.</p><p>“That was you telling me you were gay?”</p><p>“Were? I still am.”</p><p>John simply stared at him.</p><p>“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” John began laughing. “I needed a bit more to go on than that.”</p><p>Sherlock frowned.</p><p>“But what about all that stuff with Irene Adler?” John asked, his laugh lighting up his face. “All that texting business.”</p><p>Sherlock rolled his eyes. </p><p>“Our text messages are inconsequential,” he countered. “Not everything is about sex, you know. She has a new girlfriend – and Irene wanted to introduce me to her girlfriend’s brother.”</p><p>John raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“And did you?”</p><p>“Of course not. I told you when we first met: I consider myself married to my work. Besides, I dated Janine and look what happened there,” Sherlock sat down in his armchair again, and John took his own. "Far too much hassle."</p><p>“That wasn’t a real relationship,” John chuckled. The gingernuts crunched as he sat down. “You were only with her to get to Magnussen.”</p><p>“True,” Sherlock hummed. “But still. Hard work.”</p><p>John sighed quietly, looking down at his daughter who was now leaning back against him.!her little pink boots dug into his thigh as she wriggled and tried to turn. John let her, keeping a loose hold as she pivoted.</p><p>“Would you ever have one?” He asked after a few moments of silence, punctuated only by Rosie's quiet squeaks and gurgles.</p><p>Sherlock looked up at him.</p><p>“Have what?”</p><p>“A relationship.”</p><p>"Depends on who it's with."</p><p>John watched him quietly for a few moments, but his mind was racing a mind a minute as impulses attempted to outrun logic, dodging and jumping over every sensible obstacle. His heart gave him all the adrenaline he needed.</p><p>Carefully, and oh so cautiously, he said:</p><p>"How about with me?"</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter Three: The Zoo</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Hi! This chapter contains references to cheating and blowjobs. Just a head’s up :)</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello. Just about made it within the next day goal lol. Today has been hectic. This chapter is a little slow, sorry! But it’s the last one tomorrow! :D</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sherlock had enjoyed reading Bridget Jones’s Diary. He thought that the characters were somehow far-fetched and boring at the same time, but he had always enjoyed the film and therefore decided that he also enjoyed the book.</p><p>He had no plans to tell neither John nor Mrs Hudson the truth, but he enjoyed contemplating their reactions. </p><p>John would be surprised, but wouldn’t taunt him about it. Mrs Hudson would pretend she knew all along. </p><p>Throughout the years, Sherlock had created an image of himself and projected it onto those around him. He was pleased when people considered him to be cold and calculating, and loved it even more when he irritated people through his arrogance. Sometimes he couldn’t help it, and sometimes he would rather not piss a person off, but most of the time the benefits far outweighed the consequences.</p><p>John had fallen for it, Molly had fallen for it, the whole of Scotland Yard had fallen for it; the only people who recognised that Sherlock wasn’t as cold-blooded as he let on were Mycroft, Irene, and possibly Mrs Hudson although sometimes Sherlock wasn’t quite sure. </p><p>He had been in relationships in the past. He had been in a very fulfilling relationship with his University’s rugby captain, and when said rugby captain was caught wanking off the scrum-half, Sherlock had fallen into a new relationship with drugs and subsequently drug addiction. He had enjoyed that relationship at the time, but it couldn’t last.</p><p>Then, he had received a request for help from a kind British lady living in Florida. Sherlock had flown over and spent a few months unpicking her case. That lady then became his and John’s landlady, but before that Sherlock developed a friends-with-benefits type situation with a used car salesman, who he’d bought a car off when he realised he would probably be in Florida for a while. </p><p>Sherlock hadn’t been proud of that relationship. Not because of the man’s job or even because the man had a wife and four children at home, but because Sherlock had wished it could have become more. </p><p>He knew they weren’t suited to one another, and he knew that the man would drive him insane if they spent anymore than two hours in one another’s company. A few hours alone in a desperately dower motel was one thing, but Sherlock knew that if they were to spend the night together he would definitely regret it. Because before it actually happened he was free to imagine it. He was allowed to mould scenarios of what his life would be like with Mr Used-Car Salesman, closeted bisexual with three children. </p><p>He imagined not feeling so alone when he woke up in the middle of the night with no one to talk to about what was on his mind.</p><p>He imagined holidays where they could express themselves freely, away from the prying eyes of the man’s wife and away from the gossiping staff. </p><p>The staff hadn’t said a word when the wife had walked in to find a very flustered husband sitting at his desk, barely buckling his belt in time while Sherlock hid in the supply closet with a mouthful of cum. </p><p>The staff also hadn’t said a word when Sherlock stole one of the cars, but that was a whole different story.</p><p>In any case, Sherlock had broken their dysfunctional relationship off when he returned to the UK, and it was around that time that he realised that he deserved more. <br/>He deserved a relationship where he wasn’t posing as the intern whenever the wife appeared, or squatting in a closet willing his erection to die. </p><p>He deserved to be in a proper, real, committed relationship. </p><p>But that hadn’t happened.</p><p>Because he was a twat.</p><p>And then John had appeared and John… John had tricked him. From day one, John had totally and utterly pulled the wool over his eyes.</p><p>John was straight. A fully-fledged heterosexual with all the libido of James Bond and the same talent of attracting the ladies. Mary had been interesting, but the rest of them had been dull and boring and oh so predictable. </p><p>So, when John announced that he was potentially interested in a relationship with Sherlock, Sherlock found himself slightly lost for words.</p><p>“Sherlock?” John asked, brows furrowed with a face full of worry. “Are you going to answer?”</p><p>Sherlock considered it for a few moments.</p><p>“Maybe?”</p><p>John frowned.</p><p>“Maybe to a relationship, or maybe to answering the question?”</p><p>“Both,” Sherlock replied slowly. “John, I can’t help but think we might kill one another if we tried to stretch our friendship into…” his throat felt strangely restricted “into romance.”</p><p>John smiled warmly. In his lap, Rosie fidgeted. She was quickly becoming bored, and threw herself back against John’s chest. John hugged her close.</p><p>“Maybe,” John agreed, “but it’s a risk I’m more than willing to take. I’m pretty sure we could handle it, though.”</p><p>Sherlock eyed him closely, surveying him. </p><p>He knew that John had visited him for something along those lines, and he knew that John’s actions were born from a late night session of thinking and staring at the TV. John needed that background noise, Sherlock knew. </p><p>John needed the background noise in the mundane situations to keep his brain from going to places that he feared. What those places were Sherlock hadn’t quite managed to assemble into a coherent fact yet – it wasn’t the war, per say, but throughout the years of their friendship John had started to develop more and more seemingly insignificant coping mechanisms. </p><p>To a person who had only recently met John they would appear as perfectly ordinary behaviour.</p><p>To Sherlock, they were the sign of something more sinister.</p><p>“Can I think about it?” Sherlock asked after a few moments.</p><p>“Yes,” John said quickly. “Definitely. I don’t want to rush you or anything…”</p><p>“I know,” Sherlock replied. He took out his phone, both to send a text and to obscure his face.</p><p>Opposite him, John brushed Rosie’s tufty hair with his fingers and fiddled with the velcro of her shoes, which were wonky.</p><p>“He really did get ready in a hurry,” Sherlock thought to himself, watching John from the corner of his eye. “He’s even put mismatched socks on Rosie.”</p><p>He finished sending a text and put his phone down. </p><p>“Okay,” he said, looking up at John. His hands fell to the arms of his chair.</p><p>Unlike the previous day, the silence between them wasn’t tense. At lunch, the silence had been punctuated with awkward interruptions from Molly and adorable hiccups from Rosie. Now it felt pleasant. Calm. Like things were slowly creeping back to normal despite their conversation and despite the overwhelming impact it would have on their lives from there on out.</p><p>But it felt right. It was definitely right. This conversation was long overdue, and although Sherlock knew that there would be no turning back, he also knew that this was it. This was the big one. Really, John had always been his, just as he had always been John’s. They’d just never addressed it before. The admission of that truth and the verbal statement of wanting more was the beginning of a wonderful new game.</p><p>John looked up at Sherlock. </p><p>“We can…” Sherlock’s face contorted, as though he was attempting to eat a particularly sour lemon, “date, but I have some rules.”</p><p>John’s shoulders visibly relaxed, and he beamed. He knew that Sherlock’s expression was aimed at the expectations of a new relationship, rather than the concept of a relationship with him. </p><p>“Rules?” John queried.</p><p>“Yes,” Sherlock nodded. “If we date, and if we are dating, we keep it a secret.”</p><p>“Done,” John agreed. </p><p>“Until the right moment.”</p><p>“The papers are still sniffing around you, after the whole Culverton Smith thing.”</p><p>“I know.” Sherlock nodded. “But that’s not why I’d like to keep our relationship a secret.” He stood up and made his way to the fireplace. </p><p>The flat had been cleaned by Mycroft’s team. There was no dust, no dirty dishes (although that was thanks to Mrs Hudson, rather than Mycroft’s team), and there were absolutely zero hazards of any sort. Even the knife, which Sherlock used to stab letters onto the mantel piece, had been removed. </p><p>John watched as Sherlock wiped his finger across the mantel piece’s puckered stab wounds. </p><p>“What is it, then?” John asked, but he still couldn’t stop smiling. </p><p>Sherlock found it endearing.</p><p>“There are whispers,” Sherlock said, turning back around to face him. “Yesterday I caught a few of them, and I’m afraid I can’t be any clearer than that, as I am only beginning to put the pieces together myself. There is something dark on the horizon, John, and we are better facing it together than we are apart.”</p><p>John stood up, holding Rosie to his chest.</p><p>“You can’t give me a single hint?”</p><p>Sherlock shook his head. </p><p>“Right.” </p><p>“Relax,” Sherlock said, “this isn’t the first time I’ve withheld information from you.”</p><p>“You don’t have to remind me,” John said, looking down at Rosie. “Is she safe?”</p><p>“For the time being.”</p><p>“Meaning?”</p><p>Sherlock sighed. </p><p>“John, we are going to have to carry on our lives as normal, as if nothing has changed. When whatever is on the horizon becomes a discernible figure and presents itself to us, will signify when we are able to act. Until then we will have to act as though everything is completely normal.”</p><p>John nodded.</p><p>“What’s normal for us?” </p><p>Sherlock shrugged. “You tell me. I’m a recovering drug addict who’s being babysat more or less 24 hours a day, and you’re a grief stricken widow with a boring job, a lovely daughter, and a house in the suburbs.”</p><p>John watched him thoughtfully, thinking over the situation. After a few moments, he said:</p><p>“Can I take you out on a date?”</p><p>Sherlock groaned.</p><p>“Did you listen to a word I just said?”</p><p>John rolled his eyes.</p><p>“Listen. Come to the zoo with us,” he said, looking up at Sherlock. “I’m a single parent. You’re providing adult company for me while I take my daughter to the zoo. It’s not out of the ordinary. You’d have come with me if Mary was still alive.”</p><p>Sherlock thought it over. </p><p>On the one hand, the zoo would be full of irritating parents and their snot-nosed offspring. On the other, John and Rosie would be there. </p><p>“Come on,” John grinned. “You know it makes sense.”</p><p>“Fine,” Sherlock sighed. “Let me get dressed.”</p><p>—</p><p>John didn’t think Sherlock would turn down the offer to go to the zoo. There were elephants there, and he knew Sherlock liked elephants. </p><p>Ideally, he would have taken Sherlock somewhere much nicer for their first date. A murder museum, for example, or maybe even St Bart’s so that Sherlock could spend some time amongst the chemicals that we’re currently off-limits to a recovering junkie. </p><p>But, the zoo was nice. They had stopped at a shop along the way and picked up some nappies for Rosie, and when Rosie inevitably needed a change of clothes Sherlock had rushed to the gift shop and acquired a onesie that very loosely resembled a monkey. </p><p>They sipped coffee in the crowed café as the rain poured down, and they took it in turns carrying Rosie. They saw giraffes and penguins and red pandas, and under the pretence of friends they discussed the mindless things that friends usually talked about. They laughed, they irritated one another, and for the first time in a while they felt comfortable with one another. Sherlock even willingly took photographs of John and Rosie together, and then sent them to John after filtering the good from the bad. </p><p>They walked back to Baker Street from the zoo. The rain faded away and by the time they returned to Baker Street the clouds had parted and the sun was shining through.</p><p>“Thank you for today,” Sherlock said as he hung his coat up. </p><p>John smiled. </p><p>“Thank you for coming to the zoo with us.”</p><p>Rosie was fast asleep, strapped to John’s chest.</p><p>“I have a cot for her,” Sherlock said, nodding towards Rosie. “If you wanted to stay a bit longer?”</p><p>“Why do you have a cot?” </p><p>“Don’t look at me like that. It’s from before. I tried to send over the toys and clothes you left here too, but you didn’t want to talk to me.”</p><p>Sherlock’s genial expression melted into one of quiet silence. John’s chest hurt.</p><p>“It wasn’t… it wasn’t like that,” he said, but Sherlock shook his head.</p><p>“Don’t. Don’t do that. It’s in the past,” he said. </p><p>“It’s not that far in the past, Sherlock,” John corrected him. “It’s recent history.”</p><p>Sherlock sighed heavily. </p><p>“Do you want to put her in the cot or not?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Okay.”</p><p>John set up the cot. Sherlock made tea. While Rosie slept in the cot built in Sherlock’s room, Sherlock and John sat opposite one another, lost for what to say. </p><p>“Should it be this difficult?” Sherlock asked after about five minutes of silence.</p><p>“We’ve been dating for all of about five hours,” John pointed out, smiling despite the situation. </p><p>Sherlock groaned and titled his head back.</p><p>“Can we just skip to the part where we’re happily married and our only argument is who has to turn off the landing light?”</p><p>John laughed. Actually laughed.</p><p>“That’s what you want?”</p><p>Sherlock nodded. </p><p>“Yes, it is. Why’s that funny?”</p><p>“It’s not, I just…” John’s voice trailed away. “I didn’t think that would be the type of thing you’d be interested in.”<br/>Within less than a second of John finishing his sentence, he knew he’d said the wrong thing. </p><p>—</p><p>Sometimes, Sherlock felt that things were finally beginning to work out for him. Sometimes, those moments were when he found a packet of biscuits in the cupboard, or sometimes they occurred when a particular juicy case squeezed it’s way into his letterbox. </p><p>And sometimes they disintegrated entirely, when he realised that despite everything, John still saw him as the sociopath he always pretended to be.</p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter Four: Mrs Hudson</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hello! Thank you for reading this far!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>IA: You’re being dramatic x<br/>SH: I’m not.<br/>IA: You really are. He asked you out, I thought that’s what you wanted? X<br/>SH: It was.<br/>IA: So stop complaining and get on with it x<br/>SH: You’re very unhelpful.<br/>IA: You’re just stubborn x<br/>SH: I’m not that stubborn.<br/>IA: Fine. If your 30 second relationship with John hasn’t worked out: do you fancy going for dinner? X<br/>SH: No. </p><p>—</p><p>Mrs Hudson would have considered herself a fool if she hadn’t realised what was going on between Sherlock and John. She had known it the moment John had walked into Baker Street that day; Sherlock could offer some intricate deduction filled with needlessly scientific facts about John’s right shoe’s aglet, but she didn’t need any of that. She knew the expression of a man who was both determined and in love. </p><p>She had seen it in the faces of the drug addicts who had turned up at her Florida flat out of desperation for the substance to which they clung.</p><p>She had seen it in the faces of the protesters in the marches she had attended in her youth – that powerful desperation for change that came with the passion of the protest. </p><p>She had seen it in Sherlock’s face. Plenty of times. Far too many times considering how little his determination reaped the rewards it had sewn in vain.</p><p>She sighed quietly to herself as she heard the front door slam. It was almost sickening how often she had to get the hinges and locks fixed whenever John was around. </p><p>The man couldn’t close the door without slamming it, particularly when he was in a mood. And despite not hearing the conversation that had warranted the slamming of her front door, she resigned herself to an inevitably foul-tempered Sherlock filled evening. </p><p>“Why can’t you two just get along?” She mumbled, closing her copy of Death on the Nile on the first page, bookmark nestled securely in place.</p><p>Slowly, she stood up and picked the tin of biscuits off the kitchen counter - desperate times call for desperate measures – and began her journey upstairs.</p><p>The flat was silent. A breeze floated by, buoyant on the stillness Sherlock and John’s argument had left in the cramped lounge, like space dust ricocheting off the atmosphere.</p><p>Mrs Hudson set the biscuit tin down next to Sherlock’s laptop, looking around.</p><p>Annoyance at John was the first thing to hit her. She had always liked the doctor and been very tolerant of him, even after he abandoned her when Sherlock ‘died’, and after he had stomped over Sherlock’s naïve and damaged heart. Again. And again. And where was he now? Always jealous of any attention Sherlock received, Mrs Hudson watched as the man always pointed the finger at Sherlock and rarely took the blame for his own actions. <br/>He would piss Sherlock off and then cry victim when Sherlock lashed out. He’d done it numerous times. When Sherlock tried to help and it backfired, John would claim that everything was always Sherlock’s fault.<br/>He’d even blamed Sherlock for Mary’s death, and Sherlock hadn’t had chance to explain himself before John steamrollered over their friendship with his mourning.</p><p>Mrs Hudson could sympathise with the mourning of his dead wife, but there was absolutely no need for him to be that cruel to Sherlock.</p><p>Mrs Hudson decided that John was a very petty man who definitely didn’t deserve Sherlock, and next time she saw him she would tell him exactly what she thought. </p><p>She couldn’t bear to see Sherlock’s heart get broken again. </p><p>“Ah, just the person I wanted to see.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson turned around and found, to her surprise, Sherlock standing in the doorway of the lounge, with Rosie fast asleep in his arms. </p><p>“Would you mind finding some suitable blankets for Rosie? John’s gone back home to fetch some more clothes for her. I don’t want to put her down in case she falls off something.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson instantly relaxed. </p><p>“Of course, dear,” she said warmly, smiling up at Sherlock and Rosie. </p><p>“Thank you.”</p><p>Sherlock turned around and walked back to his bedroom, the now assembled cot easily visible through the open door. </p><p>“Sherlock?”</p><p>Mrs Hudson followed him through, still slightly hesitant. </p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“Is everything alright?” She asked carefully. “Between you and John?”</p><p>Sherlock lay Rosie in the cot and turned around. </p><p>“I’m not sure,” Sherlock replied honestly. “We had a few words. John and his self-diagnosed victimisation is going to be his downfall.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson sighed, quietly relieved that Sherlock had at registered one of John’s tendencies.</p><p>“But we’ve decided to make one of our rules of our clear communication. If one of us is unhappy with something, we have to make it known and not bottle it up.”<br/>Mrs Hudson clapped her hands together, beaming from ear to ear.</p><p>“A rule?” She asked excitedly. “Oh, Sherlock.”</p><p>Sherlock grinned embarrassedly, his cheeks burning crimson.</p><p>“Yes, a rule. He’s still a bit tender, but we decided that we would test the waters.”</p><p>“But what happened?” Mrs Hudson enquired, watching as Sherlock closed his bedroom curtains. “John slammed the door and I assumed you’d had another one of your rows. One day the whole building will fall down if you two aren’t careful.”</p><p>“We almost argued,” Sherlock replied. “But then I just… I couldn’t be bothered for the hurt. Angst is incredibly boring and I’m getting too old. So I told him.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson nodded excitedly.</p><p>“And?”</p><p>“And what?” Sherlock asked, walking around his room and picking up bits and pieces that he’d abandoned throughout the week. “There was no big romantic gesture, Mrs Hudson. I made a comment about marriage…” </p><p>Mrs Hudson raised an eyebrow.</p><p>“John didn’t think I would be into that sort of thing. So, I told him what I wanted out of a relationship and he told me what he wanted, and we discovered that what we wanted was largely the same thing.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson couldn’t stop smiling, which prompted Sherlock to continue.</p><p>“John wants to come on cases again, and is considering leaving his GP practice. Mary left him a lot of money, but he’s been spending most on it on getting his hair cut to that quiff, and I want John to come on cases again, and I would also like John and Rosie to move in here.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson could hardly contain her excitement.</p><p>“But, there are a few obstacles to overcome first. I’ve told John that we can’t do anything concrete until those obstacles present themselves.” </p><p>Mrs Hudson nodded slowly. </p><p>“You two can’t do anything simply, can you?” She sighed. </p><p>“But this calls for celebration.”</p><p>Sherlock smiled. In the cot, Rosie stretched out and yawned. </p><p>“John won’t spend nights here,” Sherlock told Mrs Hudson quickly, watching Rosie while she slept. “And John’s going to continue seeing this new therapist of his. Oh, and I’m going back to see Ella.”</p><p>“Who’s Ella?”</p><p>“John’s old therapist,” Sherlock supplied. “We’ve decided it’s best if we see different ones.”</p><p>“Well,” Mrs Hudson stood in the doorway. “If you need a babysitter, just let me know.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded.</p><p>“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”</p><p>Mrs Hudson turned to leave, full of hope for her favourite tenant, but she paused on the way out.</p><p>“Sherlock, you make sure you tell me if John upsets you. If you don’t tell me, I’ll know anyway. I don’t want to see you get hurt again.”</p><p>Sherlock nodded.</p><p>“I think this’ll be the one, Mrs Hudson.”</p><p>—</p><p>John couldn’t stop smiling. He had just dropped Rosie off at the best nursery, the sun was shining, and after his appointment with his therapist he was going to head straight to Baker Street to solve crimes and receive one of the best blow jobs he’d ever received.</p><p>Honestly, if he’d known how good Sherlock was he’d have initiated a relationship years ago. Sod the politics, sod Moriarty, and sod every single thing that had ever stood between them. John was the happiest he’d been in years.  </p><p>Their first kiss had taken place on a perfectly ordinary Sunday morning. Sherlock had brought John an anniversary card.</p><p>“It’s not our anniversary,” John told him, flipping the card over in his hand. “And you left the price on the back.”</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock said, taking the card off him and peeling the sticker off. He handed the card back to John. “Of course it’s our anniversary. 29th of January. It’s the day we met.”</p><p>John looked up at him, surprised. </p><p>“How on earth do you remember that?” He asked, bewildered. </p><p>Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table. Rosie was downstairs with Mrs Hudson, and John continued making two mugs of tea.</p><p>“It’s on your blog,” Sherlock replied. “I told you, I often read your blog. I remember the dates.”</p><p>“You only read them to fall asleep.”</p><p>Sherlock blushed slightly. </p><p>“I read them to relax.”</p><p>He didn’t offer anymore on the topic, but John didn’t need him to. He already knew.</p><p>“I didn’t get you anything,” he said, setting Sherlock’s tea down in front of him. “Sorry.”</p><p>Sherlock shrugged. </p><p>“It’s okay,” he said, turning his mug around so that the handle was in the right position to be grabbed easily. “You can make it up to me another way.” </p><p>He looked up at John with slight smirk and a definite twinkle in his eye.</p><p>John grinned. </p><p>“Oh?”</p><p>“Hm.” Sherlock nodded. His blush deepened when John stood in front of him. They had been close before. Closer, in fact. But John could feel the electricity like static tense between them as he began to close the gap.</p><p>He gently tucked his hand beneath Sherlock’s chin and tilted his head upwards, slightly. </p><p>Sherlock moved easily, and from the position of his hand John could feel Sherlock’s heartbeat race a mile a minute. </p><p>They kissed slowly, softly, with all the gentleness of a flower petal fluttering down towards a bed of fluffy grass.</p><p>And John hadn’t stopped smiling since. </p><p>Since their first kiss, he and Sherlock spent what time together they could. They didn’t really go for lunch or dinner together, because they weren’t that sort of couple and because of their vow of secrecy, but John’s heart was full. Full, because the previous night he’d told Sherlock he loved him and Sherlock had said it back instantly. </p><p>Without a second thought. </p><p>John genuinely thought he might burst. The few weeks since he and Sherlock had gone to the zoo were some of the happiest of his life.</p><p>And then he entered this therapist’s house. </p><p>And the brief spell of happiness came crumbling down.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I hope that was okay! </p><p>If you want more, I wrote a small fic a few years ago that involves Sherlock and John hiding on their wedding day. It wasn’t written with the intention of coming after this fic, but I think it works quite nicely. I’ve also written another fic (a while ago), that centres around Sherlock and John’s retirement. I’ll try to add them to this fic as a series.</p><p>Stay safe! :) x</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for reading this far! If you’d like to leave a kudos or comment please feel free :) Stay safe everyone!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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